


And There is Happiness

by firrehearrt



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bellamy PoV, Clarke pov, F/M, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, author!Bellamy, like a tiny bit, like the bad kind, misleadingly title lol if you're here for fluff i am not your gal, some fluff at the end?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firrehearrt/pseuds/firrehearrt
Summary: While you were out building other worlds, where was I?Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?I made you my temple, my mural, my skyNow I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your lifeDrawing hearts in the bylineAlways taking up too much space or time
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Octavia Blake/Lincoln (minor)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 84





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So technically this is based off tolerate it, but the title is from happiness. And if you haven't listened to either of those songs, they're heartbreakingly sad.

Bellamy’s never looked at her with indifference before. 

Adoration, yes, passion, of course, love, almost always. 

They’ve had fights before. No one makes it ten years into a marriage without a fight. But even then, when he’s seething with anger and she’s equally as pissed, there’s always something behind his eyes. 

She would take that anger right now, over the emptiness of his eyes as he glances up at her from across the table at the overly expensive restaurant he’s taken her too. 

It’s their ten year anniversary, and they’ve never done anything like this. Which makes sense, Bellamy’s writing just took off a few years ago, their first dates, back in college, consisted of scrounged up meals on Bellamy’s part, and studying. Then, of course, they were fresh out of college, the epitome of starving artists. Bellamy was teaching at that point, writing in every spare moment he could find, and Clarke was applying for every curator position she could find, waitressing most nights. Both of them trying to pay their loans off, then it was wedding expenses. 

In short, money had always been tight. But even once Bellamy got published, quickly rising to the top of the New York Times Bestsellers, and they had more money than they could ever have dreamed of, they’d never done something so boring. 

What was romantic to every couple had always seemed boring, impersonal, to the two of them. 

Bellamy must have forgotten that. 

“How are edits going?” Clarke asks, begging for his attention, for that light to come back in his eyes when he looks at her. 

He barely looks up from his phone, “Good. I’ll probably have them in before the end of the week."

She smiles, proud of him, though he doesn’t see it. 

Clarke picks at the food in front of her, not feeling particularly enthused. Bellamy has barely touched what he ordered either, typing out something on his phone since the food arrived a good twenty minutes ago. 

It’s odd, to remember the man in front of her is her husband, when this feels more like the dates her mom used to set her up on, some rich heir that preferred to talk about themselves the entirety of the date, showing off rolexes and fancy cars she didn’t care for. 

Bellamy looks up, lost in thought for a second, taking a second to think about whatever it is he’s typing, then he dives back in. 

She dares take a bite of the salad she ordered, immediately blanching at the taste. Ridiculously over seasoned dressing meets her tongue, but she forces it down. The waitress comes by then, asking on the food. 

Clarke orders the first wine she sees on the list in front of her, done pretending to enjoy this. Bellamy doesn’t look up through the whole exchange, and the waitress shoots her a pitying look, probably used to seeing wives ignored by husbands. 

God, when did this become her life?

Even as crazy about reputation and status as her mother had been, her parents marriage had never been so empty. During her younger years, they’d been so happy together, throwing smiles at each other constantly, kisses on cheeks just because. Then Abby had chosen her career over him, but even then, at the funeral, she had been hysterical. Clarke had considered it an act at first, but then she saw her mother, and there was heartbreak there. Her mother truly hadn’t been the same since. Not that Clarke had anything to do with her anymore, but she knew basic facts and figures. Her mother had moved from New York, founding a smaller practice in a little suburb, confining herself to the small life she had always claimed to abhor. 

Love, through and through to the end. 

Even if it had been a poison, in the end.

Never had she seen her parents so unfazed by each other, as Bellamy seemed to be with Clarke. 

Slowly, it had happened. So subtle, Clarke hadn’t realized he was done with her until he’d been gone, on another book tour. For three days, he hadn’t texted, hadn’t called. Hadn’t responded to any of her attempts to talk to him. 

She’d been hysterical by day two, calling his agent, there with him. He’d assured Clarke everything was fine, Bellamy was busy. 

And that had been it. 

He had found a life, made a life, without her in it. 

That had been a year ago, just after their ninth anniversary. Clarke had never been so lost. She’d thrown herself into work, thrown herself into helping Octavia, as she’d just had her twins. She’d learned how to sew, made baby blankets for both of them. When Bellamy was gone, she’d stay over there, rather than begging for him to take her. She’d tried that a few times, and he’d frowned, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, placing a placating kiss on her forehead, saying he would be home quick. 

It had shattered her heart every single time, so she’d distracted herself. 

Healthy coping mechanisms, of course. 

Octavia and Lincoln had been happy to have the help. Lincoln had taught her to cook a few things on the weeks she spent there, and she’d grown close to her nephews. She adored them, they were everything she’d expected of Octavia and Lincoln’s children, crazy, with an unexpected depth to them. 

They were terrors, and they were sweethearts, with no in between. Octavia had asked, once. Clarke’s job offered a lot of flexibility, so she’d almost always gone with Bellamy. 

A tight smile, “I just haven’t felt like travelling lately.” Octavia’s eyes shot to her belly then, raising a brow. “Oh, god, no.” A painful swallow. “We haven’t talked about it for a few years. But yeah. I’m not pregnant. And we aren’t trying.”

O had dropped it, one of the boys crying from his crib. And that was that. 

Bellamy looks up from his phone, finally. He looks at the empty wine glass in front of her, the untouched food on both their plates, frowns, but doesn’t comment. “Are you ready to go?”

Clarke nods, her eyes watering out of nowhere. This is it for the night, clearly. The first time he’s been home and made time for her in forever. And they’re spending the night at a restaurant neither of them enjoy, ignoring each other. 

Exactly the fairytale ending Clarke had always dreamed up for herself. 

She sighs as the valet pulls their car up outside, Bellamy standing next to her, hands in his pockets. Part of her yearns to throw her arms around his, wrap herself next to him, but the last time she tried that, he’d flinched, looked confused. 

So she keeps her hands, to herself, shivers wracking her body in the cold night air. He doesn’t open her door, as he once had, cracking jokes about his princess and the chariot awaiting her. 

_ His _ . She hasn’t felt like his in years. 

The minutes home go achingly slow. 

“We’re getting a new collection in at work. It’s some of my favorite art we’ve had.”

Bellamy hums non committedly. 

“Will you come see it? It’ll be up for a few weeks. I’m really proud of the arrangements.”

He sighs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, staring the red light they’re stopped at. “I’m not sure if I’ll have time, I’ll have to check my schedule.”

Clarke nods, wiping at the treacherous tears falling from her eyes. He doesn’t notice, and she’s not sure why she hoped he might. A quick click has low music playing from the car's stereo. Latest hits, or something like that. Shitty music that Bellamy and her have never enjoyed. He used to send her love songs, when he was gone on trips. Early in the morning, way before she’d be up. A cute text and a link, a reminder that he loved her. 

Those haven’t hit her phone in months. 

“What are you working on now?” Another attempt, her last, if she’s smart. She only tries three times, anymore. A fourth will send her into a sobbing mess. 

He frowns. He’s always frowning, giving her nothing. He used to wear every emotion on his face for her, smiles, laughs, glares, all things she took for granted. 

“I’m not sure I can tell you yet. I’ll have to talk to Patrick.”

Patrick, his agent. 

He used to tell her everything, whisper his ideas in her ear late at night, entrance her with stories as he’d cook, send her the first draft of everything to read. Now everything went through Patrick. 

Not that Clarke had anything against the man personally. He was hardworking, and had been by Bellamy from the very first book. 

It was Bellamy’s choosing him over her, time and time again, that bothered her. 

“Are you going to be here for the boys birthday party next month?” Normally she’d stop, but there’s an itch, begging for words from him, begging for him to fill the car with the stories he used to, talk to her like he used to. 

“The 24th, right?” She nods. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“I was thinking we might go shopping that week for presents for them.” Another one of those cursed frowns that haunt her nightmares. 

“Can’t you go yourself? You know them better than I do.” She sighs. “Besides, they’re still little, do they really need presents from us? They have no idea what’s going on.”

This, coming from the man that whispered to her under the covers, names floating in his head, the yearning for little patters of feet on the hardwood floors. The dream of their own child, tiny and perfect. He’d filled her vision with that dream, telling her under the covers, like they were children themselves, at a sleepover. 

But that had been years ago. He hadn’t brought it up since, and she’d been about to. Before the week of Nothing, as she’d deemed it in her head. 

Because turning points deserved titles, no matter how awful they felt. No matter how earth shattered and heart wrenching they’d been. 

She’d sketched it once, as they’d sat in their living room, her feet in his lap as he idly rubbed at her calves. A tiny baby, in both their arms. His curls, her eyes. 

It had been the dream, the thing they’d worked so hard for. 

“I thought it might be fun to go together. We haven’t had a lot of that lately.” 

“It just seems counter intuitive, to spend so much time doing something we don’t both need to be there for.”

“Isn’t that the point of this?”

He frowns, and her heart is pounding. These are the most words she’s gotten out of him in weeks years. “What do you mean?”

“We’re a team, Bellamy, I married you because I want to be around you, talk to you.”

And there it is, her truth. 

“We can go shopping, if it’s that important to you.” And there’s no emotion there, just acceptance, uncaring acceptance. 

~~

He’s gone for the next month. Meetings in New York, meeting with his ‘people’ as he calls them, planning out a new series, too busy for his own good. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, as his driver pulls up to the house, ready to take him to the airport. She nods, doesn’t fling her arms around him as she once had, doesn’t wait for him to pull her into him and kiss her, as he once had. She leans against the doorway, watching him load his bags without looking back. 

She doesn’t cry, this time. 

Baby steps. 

She heads back inside, wandering through the house aimlessly. She turns the thermostat up, something she only does when he’s gone. He’s always ran hot. They used to fight when she’d do it. Nothing serious, but he’d glare at her, and she’d smile sweetly, giggling when he’d race her to the thermostat, complaining when she’d throw on extra layers because of it. Smile brightly when he’d pull her into him, telling her he’d keep her warm instead. 

She runs upstairs, grabbing socks from her dresser, quickly heading back downstairs to make dinner. She’d thawed out chicken earlier, so all she has left to do is chop the vegetables and mix a few things. She grabs her speaker and phone before, turning on a playlist. 

Things feel lighter, for a bit, as she flits around the kitchen. For a moment, she’s suspended away from everything that feels too heavy to bear. 

For a moment, it’s just her, and a sad Taylor Swift song, belting the melancholy she feels too deep in her soul, anymore. 

Their home alarm system beeps out of nowhere, and she freezes as it announces that the front door’s been opened. Clarke grips the knife in her hand, dropping below the cabinets, slowly crawling to get a view of the door. The sound of something hitting the floor reaches her ears, and terror streaks through her. Ever so cautiously, she peeks her head around the corner of the kitchen island, almost collapsing out of relief when it’s Bellamy. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, eyes squinting in her direction. 

Clarke’s cheeks color. “I thought you were gone.” 

He runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah. I was.” His eyes dart around the kitchen as she makes her way to turn down the speaker. “You cook?”

She wasn’t going to cry today, she’d sworn to herself that she wasn’t. 

“Yeah, Lincoln taught me.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Lincoln?”

“When I’m over there while you’re gone, I helped with dinner a couple times, and picked some stuff up.”

“You go over there when I’m gone?”

Jesus, does he know anything about her anymore?

“I thought you knew that.”

He shakes his head, running his hand through again. “Yeah, must’ve slipped my mind. Do you need help?” 

Clarke shakes her head, moving back to chopping the broccoli. “Why are you home?”

He sighs, dropping down into the barstool across from her. “Things got cancelled. Family emergency. We can do it over skype, probably, so it’s not a big deal.”

Where her heart might have lifted at this once, she feels nothing. 

And maybe she’s grown just as indifferent as him.

He stands then, “I’m going to go get some work on, let me know when it’s done?”

She nods, not daring to look up, scared of what she might find. He’s on the phone when she peeks into his office to let him know dinner’s ready, looking mildly distressed as he jots down notes on the pad in front of him. She smiles, seeing his laptop open to a doc in front of him. He’s always preferred to handwrite things, said it helped him remember better. 

She waits, for a few minutes, before deciding to eat without him. His calls go on for hours anymore. 

The house is quiet as she washes up afterwards, though she’d been anticipating that either way. But there’s something about knowing she’s not alone, and yet still feeling like she is that gets to her. He’s still on the call when she pops in again. Clarke fixes a plate for him, leaving it next to him on the desk so she can put the rest away. 

He doesn’t say anything when she does, barely looks up from the notepad in front of him, messy with his scrawl across it. 

He’s still on the call when she goes to bed a few hours later. The bed is cold, and empty, as it always is anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2 aka the one where I use an absurd amount of strikethroughs for absolutely no reason.

Go for a walk. Have a glass of water. Go for a drive. Read something new. Bake something.  ~~ Paint something shitty with Clarke while she laughs ~~ ~~.~~ Write something random. Watch a movie. Talk to Octavia.  ~~ Talk to Clarke. ~~

Bellamy’s quickly running out of options. Writer's block is part of his routine at this point, so much so that he has his coping skills memorized. Not to mention he’s usually on a high after submitting his last draft. Normally he jumps right into the next story, without a second thought. 

Nothing is working, though. His brain feels empty and the cursor on the page in front of him is mocking him, he’s pretty sure. Sighing, he leans back in his chair as he goes over his notes again. His plot is drafted out, his character notes organized. 

There’s not a single word of the story written, however. 

_ Just write _ , he tells himself.  _ You can’t edit what isn’t written _ . The oldest writing advice known to man. 

_ Just go talk to- _

Nope. 

She’s at work, anyways. 

He feels empty. The excitement and feeling of accomplishment is gone, leaving behind an emptiness in his chest. 

Huh. 

Bellamy pulls up the submitted draft, rereading his last paragraph. 

Nothing. 

Rereads it again. 

Hollow, nothingness, still. 

His phone buzzes, and normally he’d ignore it. It’s a damper on his writing time, to consider anything else. 

But nothing’s getting done regardless. 

It’s a text, confirming his email containing the last draft went through. 

Still, nothing. 

He dismisses it. Worse things have happened, and he still loves writing. It’s just an off day. 

He stands up, moving towards the other side of the office, where their filing cabinets stand. One is dedicated to his writing things, contracts, miscellaneous papers, and things Clarke has made up for him. She’s done character sketches, designed his first cover, made moodboards to help him get through slumps. 

He smiles at the memories. Everything’s dated in the drawer, organized from earliest works to latests. 

The first few things are quick sketches, things created in between quizzing each other and corrections of essays. Words he shared brought to life with a pencil in her hand. 

It had enchanted him at first. 

When had she last spent time in her studio? 

Bellamy combs through his recent memories, but almost none of them include Clarke.

Though, he’s been really busy, so that ought to not be surprising. 

Still, it pokes at him, begging him to recall it. 

But he can’t. 

The sketches quickly turn to scenes. He flips through it quickly, watching as her art progresses, as she plays with different styles, as he crafts new stories, goes deeper into the imagery. 

They’d grown together, and the thought brings a smile to his face, quickly replaced with a frown. 

He hasn’t looked at some of this in years, hasn’t worked with Clarke like this for as long. 

When the hell had that happened? 

Again, he shakes it off. They’ve both been busy. Work has blown up for the both of them. 

That’s all it is, right?

~~

“I’m not sure why I left him” the woman starts. No, the artist. 

This incredible, wonderfully talented woman starts. 

“I loved him, I still love him.” The artist frowns, staring at the piece placed in front of them. Abstract, but Clarke can swear she picks out two forms, wrapped around each other, but looking anywhere but each other. 

She relates, far too much. 

“But we’d started to want different things.” A wistful sigh. “I love him, but I fell too deeply in love with my art, and he wanted more of my time than I was willing to give.”

He wouldn’t- they’re not at that point yet. Right?

What if she left, though, what would that accomplish? 

The thought makes her heart ache. 

But maybe it’s best to let go now, before he decides to let go of her. 

“You’ve done a great job with all of this.” Clarke’s forced back to the present with the women’s statement. She gestures around the gallery, eyes fond. The woman folds her arms, leaning back on her heels. “You’re an artist too.”

Not a question, a statement. 

Clarke nods. “It’s been a while since I’ve made anything.” 

A sad look, not pitying, but, that of a kindred soul, finding another. Without a word, the woman makes her way towards another piece, stopping directly in front of it. 

“Love is.” She pauses, as though searching for the words. “Love is not easy. Love is messy and heart shattering and worth fighting for and sometimes it’s worth it to give in and go. This piece has no discernible shapes to it, just splatters of color on a canvas, and yet, it’s conveying  _ something.  _ Though Clarke can’t figure out what. 

“Sometimes, love is numb.” The woman continues. “I moved out and got my own apartment. It took me a while to stop driving by our old place, hoping I might see him for a second.” She shakes her head, recounting the memory with a hint of embarrassment to her voice. “It had been a few months of that, and I realized I hadn’t made anything since I’d left.” A sigh. “I didn’t feel like I had anything left in me, though, so I did something I’d done at summer camp years ago. Filled water balloons with paint and chucked them at a canvas.” Clarke laughs along with her. 

“And that fixed it?”

The woman snorts. “No, god no. But it helped me  _ feel  _ again. If even for a moment.” She fixes her stare on the canvas, before chuckling lowly. “It’s a shitty piece. But I love it.”

Clarke nods. 

“How long did it take you to feel okay?”

She smiles, “Some days I still don’t feel okay.” The artist raises her eyes to the ceiling, inhaling deeply. “The universe gave me something so wonderful. He was… he was it. The one, and all that bullshit. My soulmate. But art, art is another true love. And they could no longer co-exist.”

“Is he okay?”

She considers the words. “Yes.”

And doesn’t offer any more explanation. 

~~

It’s tempting; to want to call up her mother. Ask for advice, ask what she would do. 

Tempting, to talk to Bellamy, revert to old habits. 

Tempting to want to call up her mother and offer no background, and simply ask how she might go about initiating a divorce. Just for a bit of entertainment. 

Easier, it’s worlds easier to deal with this when it’s a joke. 

_ Just deal with it, Clarke. You can talk to your god damned husband about your feelings.  _

But she’d tried that. Months ago, she’d asked if they could spend more time together, asked him to help her shop for their nephew’s birthday. He’d been busy, that week, even though she’d asked a month in advance. 

He’d ignored her at the party, too. If she was in the kitchen helping Octavia, he was helping Lincoln out on the deck. If she was playing with the boys, he was with Miller and Jackson in the living room. 

She was tired of fighting for him.  _ Love is not easy. Love is messy and heart shattering and worth fighting for and sometimes it’s worth it to give in and go.  _ But how was she to know when it was time? 

How many more months could she do this for?

_ Maybe he’ll come tonight. _

A ridiculous thought. He didn’t come when she’d asked on their anniversary. Today wouldn’t be any different. 

Perhaps… this was it. Her last night, of waiting and wanting and yearning and losing. 

If he came, they could work through this. 

And if he didn’t…

“Shit.” She exclaims, having hit her hand on the curling iron. “Fuck, that hurts.” Clarke drops the curling iron, quickly running her hand under cold water. The burn soothes over quickly, as though it was never there, and a moment later, she’s back to curling. 

Yes, she could do this.

She would be okay. 

~~

He doesn’t show up. 

But she smiles anyways. She watches as the artist beams, a lightness to her that Clarke yearns for, craves. Freedom, in a way. 

For the night, she pretends. She’s Clarke, carefree curator, proud of the work that had gone into this. She’s Clarke, happy and free and obsessed with music but harboring absolutely no musical talent. Clarke, who draws and paints in her free time. 

No attachments to people who no longer wanted her. 

And if this is what’s waiting for her on the other side-

Tempting. Sweet. Beautiful. Everything she’s wanted for months and months now. 

No longer anchored to a trap. 

A trap. 

That’s what he’d become to her. 

And there was happiness, at one point in their life together. But they couldn’t give each other that anymore. 

This would be good for the both of them. There would be happiness for them after this. Happiness that wouldn’t discredit what they had once given each other, but instead pay homage to that. Appreciate that there was a point where they had been what the other needed. And that those days were over. 

She starts looking up apartments as soon as she’s home. She kicks off her heels at the front door, a sort of giddiness in this new knowledge. (A bit of wine flowing through her, too, though she needn’t admit that). 

Bellamy’s asleep when she walks into their room, heading for the bathroom. For a moment, she stares. 

But then the ache comes back, and she moves to the bathroom instead. She runs a make up wipe across her face, watching as the paint comes off. Art, this is art. In another form, but nevertheless, art. 

Eventually, she lays next to him. He’s sound asleep. The adrenaline and hope from earlier starting to wear off-

Another bout of pain. 

~~ He used to tug her to him, even in his sleep.  ~~

Everything she looks at is bland, nothing speaking to her. Exhaustion overruns her, though. She clicks off the phone, placing it on the nightstand next to her. 

~~

“Why the hell are you looking at apartments?” It takes her aback. Bellamy hasn’t stormed like this in seemingly forever. There’s ice in his eyes, eyebrows creased. 

A reaction. 

This isn’t what she wanted though. 

~~ Wasn’t it? ~~

Clarke drops her paintbrush, wiping her hands off on her smock, before turning on her stool to face him. 

“How did you know I was?” She tilts her head, not ready for anger yet.  She’s done fighting. 

“You left your laptop open downstairs, Clarke.”  _ Shit.  _ That, she had. “Are you moving out? Are you helping a friend? Why aren’t you talking to me anymore?”

Now that, that is absolutely absurd because he stopped talking to her first, stopped telling her everything. She says so, “Me? Not talking to you? I wasn’t the one who ignored your phone calls for three fucking days.” 

A fight. This is a fight. 

He runs a hand through his hair, the other on his hip, and she waits for the frown. 

It never comes. Only icy rage. “What are you talking about?” Clarke rolls her eyes. 

“That’s what started all this.” She throws it at him, crossing her arms over her chest, as though that might hold her together. “You started ignoring me.”  _ Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.  _ “Then you just- you stopped caring, Bell.”

Confusion colors his face, and god, how is this not obvious to him?

“You stopped telling me what you were writing, barely made time for me on the rare occasion you were home. Stopped supporting me, stopped letting me come with you. You cut me out first. So don’t you dare pin this on me.”

His eyes go wide, “Why didn’t you try telling me?” His voice rises towards the end.

“God, I did. But I stopped, because I have absolutely no interest in spending my life grovelling for your love.”

He's speechless. 

So she aims her last dagger, straight for his heart. 

“I want a divorce. I want to move out. I’m done.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO here she is!
> 
> I meant to get this up on Sunday, but a family member ended up in the hospital so I've been dealing with helping her this week as well as starting a new semester and interviewing for a new job. Things have been a bit crazy, but thank you to everyone who's read this & left comments or kudos. Means the WORLD to me. 
> 
> Content warning for description of a car accident. 
> 
> Also I have no clue about anything about emergency hospital visits so that bit is... probably not accurate. Alas...
> 
> This bit takes up right where the last chapter started. 
> 
> Enjoy!

That’s it. 

Everything centers on that statement. Bellamy’s world crumbles before his eyes, with those words. 

He has the thought to stumble backwards, to absorb the shock.

But he doesn’t. How’s he supposed to respond to that?

What does she want him to say?

Because of course he doesn’t want that. 

She’s his Clarke, his wife, his soulmate. 

His everything. 

_ Does she know that, though? _

Bellamy forces himself to look at her. Her face is steeled, offering no explanation towards what he’s supposed to do, think, say. 

_Groveling_ _ ,  _ she had said.  _ Groveling for your love… _

When had it gotten so bad? When had Bellamy stopped paying attention? 

“Clarke,” he starts. But as he searches for the words, nothing comes. She leans forward in the stool, her face softening, waiting for something.

_ I love you. _

_ Don’t leave me. _

_ I’m so sorry. _

All stuck in his throat. 

Clarke shakes her head, looking down, a tear racing down her cheek. 

Before he can react, she’s storming out, heading toward their bedroom. 

To pack? Is this it?

Does she want him to fight?

What if he tried to hold her, only for her to push him away?

“Clarke,” he calls, starting after her. She doesn’t turn around, but she doesn’t close the bedroom door, either. “Clarke I’m sorry.”

Nothing. 

“Princess, don’t do this.”

That has her turning around, anger lighting up her face. “Don’t call me that.” She snaps, with that power that once awed and terrified him in equal parts. 

Just as fast, she’s pulling a suitcase out of their closet, slamming it down on the bed. 

“Clarke.” Stern, commanding,  _ don’t leave me.  _ “Don’t do this, let’s talk.”

She shakes her head. “I already talked. Balls in your court, Blake.”

“What do you want me to do?” He snaps back. She’s being impossible. 

“Other than go back a year and not choose your stupid writing over me? Nothing.” She throws a few shirts in the suitcase, topping off what she’ll need, apparently, because then she’s zipping it up. 

His eyes go wide, his pulse races,  _ he can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe.  _ “Clarke-” It comes out like a croak, as pathetic as he is. She looks up at him, tears in her eyes. 

His heart shatters. 

He did this. 

He made her cry. 

And so he lets her go. 

She doesn’t look back, as she drags the suitcase into her car, doesn’t look back as she closes the garage door. Doesn’t look back as she drives and drives and drives. 

Doesn’t look back as Bellamy  _ crashes.  _

~~ 

Brisk spring morning air meets her nose as she doodles in the corners of the journals.  _ Journaling,  _ one of the last things she though she’d ever take up. 

Clarke isn’t organized enough for journaling. She’d tried a couple times throughout the years, but it’d crashed and burned too quickly. 

But this, she’s lasted two months of journaling nearly every day. When she let it become another form of art, it made more sense, became easier, let her get things out through words, but also through sketches, small doodles.

It’s centering, though she never thought she’d become one of those people. Desperate times, and all that, she supposes. 

There’s the bark of a dog, a giggle from children on the playground, sounds of happiness, and freedom. The same shit she was supposed to get from leaving. 

Don’t think about it, don’t dwell on it. 

But she’s just… sad. Empty, more so than before. 

It doesn’t help that work has slowed down, giving her nothing to distract herself with. She doesn’t dare talk to Octavia, that would only complicate things, make it more awkward. So for the past month she’s been alone. In her little apartment that she hates. It’s cold and empty and she misses her house. Misses fighting over the thermostat, misses laying on the grass on the weekends in the summer, misses walking around the neighborhood in the fall, wrapped up in scarves and each other. 

Misses him. 

But he’s not the same anymore, she’d do well to remember that. 

Thinking she can go back and expect things to be like they were once will only end in more heartbreak. And she’s had more than her fair share for the year, she thinks. 

He hasn’t even tried to text or call her, and that’s what hurts the most, she thinks. 

Sure, this last year had been so many firsts, first time not talking for a day, first time Clarke had headed an exhibit that he didn’t make time for. 

But this first, the first time he’s not reached out after a fight. It hurts the most. It’s a beginning and an end.

It’s final. 

She’d said it. That word she’s terrified of, but has made no moves to actually go through with it since. And she won’t. 

Clarke doesn’t think so, anyways. At the moment, it had felt plausible, but now? That’s she had a taste of life without him? 

She wants nothing to do with it.

Going back doesn’t feel like an option. That’s admitting defeat, but this is a marriage, not a goddamn war. 

It’s started feeling like that though. 

A gust of wind picks up, blowing her hair back from her face and tossing the pages of her journal with it. Looking down, she sees it’s turned to an entry from a week ago, marked by a few tear stains at the bottom of the page. 

Clarke rolls her eyes at her own patheticness, but the disgust quickly dissipates, left behind with that cursed emptiness. 

Pathetic, that she wants to go back. Pathetic that it took her this long to leave. Pathetic, that she didn’t just fucking talk to him. She’s an adult, a grown woman. 

Sitting in a park, alone, surrounded solely by her insecurities. 

A jogger runs by, the music from their earbuds blasting loud enough that she catches a snippet. She sighs. There’s nothing left for her here. It’s not quite cold out, but she’s been here long enough that the chill has encased her. 

She gathers up the journal and the pens she’d brought with her, clutching them to her chest as she makes her way to the car. Her hand falls flat as she tries to turn the ignition on. 

Distantly, she feels her hand hit the gear shift, her elbow promptly falling back on the arm rest. She hardly feels it though, as the pain in her chest multiplies, searing through her body. Her head collapses onto the steering wheel. Unprompted, tears race down her face, sobs chasing up her throat. 

~~

She’s got to be a sight, on the porch of her old house, contemplating ringing the doorbell. Face still freshly red from the tears. Mascara undoubtedly clouded under her eyes. She runs her finger along the edge of the grooves in the door, taking in the light gray they’d painted it, to match the navy blue of the rest of the exterior. 

If she focuses, she can still recall that day. The hot sun beating down on the two of them, the sweat on the back of her neck, the fumes of the paint. The dirt she’d scrubbed from under her fingernails after spending most of the day planting in the flowerbeds. Recall the pizza they’d ordered for dinner that night, too exhausted to cook. Hear the giggles as Bellamy jokingly mocked her for getting sunburnt.

She doesn’t touch the doorbell. 

She doesn’t touch the doorbell-

But she’s back the next night. Earlier in the day, this time, the light of the sun a mere wisp, the humid air of spring finally settling for the day. 

She brings her damned journal, this time. Sit downs against the wall of the house with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a pen in her hand. 

Nothing comes out onto the paper. 

Well, no words. Plenty of mindless scribbles and mediocre flowers. All things that mean nothing. 

The porchlight clicks on when it gets too dark, lighting the paper in front of her. Unimportant, she would have kept on anyways. 

It means nothing. The doodles, that she’s here, the last ten years of her life. 

God. Clarke throws her head back in a groan. 

She feels like some pathetic teenager again, no control of her emotions, ups and downs coming out of nowhere. 

She’s on autopilot as she drives home and throws her clothes off before collapsing into bed. Her body screams of exhaustion but she doesn’t fall asleep. 

~~

He tries to act surprised, when he pulls up to the house and sees her sitting on the porch. She’s done this every night for a week now. At first he’d watched as she’d stood in front of the door and done nothing. He’d sat by the window the second night, too. But once he decided she wasn’t going to do anything, he’d done no more than take note of it, and made sure she got into her car and left at some point. If she’d fallen asleep there he would’ve brought her inside, or if it’d gotten as late as the second night he’d have said something. But he didn’t want to push her limits. 

Then again, that was likely what caused all of this to begin with. When he’d gone over to Octavia he’d assumed he’d be home before she got there but-

There she was. On the porch, perched up against the house. She looks up at the headlights, her eyes going wide when she realizes it’s his car. He pulls into the driveway, not sure what he’s supposed to do. Slowly, he opens the door, doesn’t close the garage door. 

“Hi” he starts, locking his gaze on her. 

She looks innocent, lips slightly parted, eyes wide, as though she wasn’t expecting him. If everything wasn’t so fucked, he’d laugh. 

“Hi.” A pause. “What are you doing here?”

That almost draws a smile from him. 

“I just got back from dinner with O and their family.” She nods, processing the information before sitting up with her journal. 

“I’ll go then, sorry.” He stops for a second. 

“You could stay.”

Her eyes go wider. 

“If you want, of course. You don’t have to.” 

She stares at him for a moment. 

“It’s kind of cold out here.”

A submission, almost. A loosening of the walls.

He inclines his head toward the garage, “I’ll throw together some food.”

“Oh you don’t-”

He turns a small smile on her, “It’s the least I can do.”

She doesn’t smile, but her lips turn the tiniest bit up, and it feels like a victory, like the first bit of happiness he’s felt in two months. Hell, a year. 

Clarke situates herself at the counter, taking up her pen and journal once again. 

It’s like seeing her for the first time all over again. At the stupid frat party where he’d picked a fight because he was angry and had had too much to drink, trying to cope. He cannot for the life of him remember what he got so worked up about, but she’d held her own, and then angrily insisted on making sure  _ he  _ got home safe, and before he’d closed the door to his dorm room: “Brave princess,” he’d called her. She’d rolled her eyes but smiled. 

For a week, she was all he could think about. Couldn’t remember her name, couldn’t remember anything but the way she’d mercilessly argued with him. 

He’d caught a glimpse of her at a coffee shop on campus, a few weeks later, and then convinced himself it wasn’t her, because she was so  _ short _ and surely no one that had been able to make him feel like he was looking up at her was that tiny. 

So that’s what he’d started with. She’d glared at him, and the rest was history. 

Until he’d fucked things up. He sighs, turning back to the soup he was warming up in the microwave. 

She’s quiet until he places the bowl in front of her, at which she raises an eyebrow before digging in as though it was the only thing she’d eaten all day. Then again, she never was one for taking good care of herself when things weren’t going well. 

“Are you going to eat?” She asks, halfway through. He shakes his head, leaning back on the counter. 

“No, I ate at Octavia’s.” She inclines her head before returning to the soup. 

Quiet, she’s so quiet. Never something he would have attributed to his wife. Maybe that’s just how she is around him, anymore. 

The last two months have been hell. He’s refused to go on any work trips, in case she came home, or those divorce papers did in fact come through. Bellamy was so on edge the first few weeks, waiting for a cursed email to hit his inbox. When it didn’t come though, he’d relaxed, before freaking out more. Leading him to last Tuesday, when headlights illuminated his office, and a ring of the doorbell never came. 

He’d been equal parts relieved, to see her okay and there, and horrified, that this was it. Horrified that he’d get the woman in front of him. Quiet, subdued, hardly there. Though, that’s what she’d had of him. 

Seeing her like this makes him want to scream. At himself, never her. He’s had enough time to realize this is entirely on him. Sure, she didn’t communicate the best, but he hadn’t listened. Expecting her to talk to a wall is absurd. Because that’s what he’d become. He’d been so obsessed with this new success, and the busy life, filling him with some sense of self importance, that he’d forgotten about the person right next to him through all of it. 

“How’s work going?”

She looks up, scraping the last bits at the bottom of the bowl into her spoon. 

“Things have been slow.”

She lifts the spoon to her lips, before standing up and putting the bowl in the sink. She takes a seat on the counter across from him, as though she intends to stay - to come back. Though he mustn't get his hopes up like that. 

There’s work to be done, on his end, if he wants to fix this. And if she doesn’t. Well, that’s that. 

“I’m sorry-”

“It’s really-” they both start at the same time. He laughs, awkwardly, before gesturing for her to talk.

“It’s really clean in here.” Almost thrown like an accusation. He knows his wife, though, and knows what she’s asking.  _ Has this hurt you as bad as it hurt me? _

“I wanted it to be nice in case you came back.” He swears her eyes brighten at that, but she betrays nothing else. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to the exhibit.”

Another incline of her head. “Why didn’t you?”

_ Be honest. _ More unspoken words. 

“Because I was stupid. Because I forgot what was most important.”

Her eyes steel, trapping anything she’s feeling inside. “And what is that?” It doesn’t come out malicious, it’s curious, asking for reassurance. 

_ Good, this is good. _ Well, not good. Good would be him never forgetting it in the first place, but this is honest and hard conversations and a step in the right direction. 

“You.” Octavia, the boys. His life, his friends. More than his marriage, even. His best friend, his greatest supporter, the love of his life. “Clarke, I’m so sorry.” He moves to take her hand between his, but she shakes her head, ever so slightly. He takes his place against the counter, forming the words that he should’ve two months ago. “I’ve been so stupid and caught up in things that mean nothing,  _ nothing,  _ not if you aren’t in my life.” He waves his hand around. “The writing never would’ve started without you, I never would have gotten this far if not for you. I owe you everything I have, and nothing means more to me than this relationship. And I’m sorry I lost sight of that.” 

She pushes tears out of her eyes, before hopping down the counter, grabbing her keys from where she discarded them earlier. His mouth drops open, but,  _ she doesn’t owe you anything, doesn’t owe you a second of her time. _

She turns at the front door, however, tears racing freely now. “I’ve just-” a sniffle. “I have to go. Just for a bit.”

And then she whisks out of the house, all too similar to the way she did two months ago. 

~~

It’s overwhelming in the house, the air too hot, too stuffy, the words taking too much of a toll on her. 

So she does what she does best. 

She runs. It starts pouring at some point in the drive. She’s not headed anywhere, just mindlessly turning here and there, the music too loud, pounding in her head, keeping the thoughts at bay. 

She’s distracted, and doesn't see the headlights in her lane until it’s too late. Even as she slams on the breaks, the car still hits her, a wicked crunch of metal reaching her ears. 

~~

He’s tempted to race to the hospital, but the roads are wet and drivers get stupid and scared and the last thing he needs is to get hurt on the way there. So he drives the speed limit, adjusts for the rain, even, and prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that she’ll be okay. 

Blood pounds in his ears as he jogs into the hospital. A nurse that he probably isn’t the nicest too escorts him back to her room, where she’s asleep. 

She looks peaceful, if not for the bruises and cuts on her face and arms. And that’s just what’s visible. Gingerly, he takes her hand in both of his. 

“I’m sorry.” He starts, voice a quiet murmur, because there will never be enough apologies that come from his lips to make any of this okay. “I’m so sorry.” He brings her hand to his lips, watching as a tear of his falls to it. “We’ll fix this okay? If you want that. We’ll do whatever you want. Let’s take a month, go somewhere, go see all those places in Europe we were planning on going for our tenth anniversary. I dropped the ball on that, I’m sorry. We can go see a therapist, or just sit down and talk this out. And you need to show me all the recipes you’ve learned.” Another kiss to her hand. “I need more drawings, too, if you want to do that.” He shakes his head. “I’ve barely written the last two months. I meant it in the highest way possible, that this is all because of you.” His lips linger on her hand this time. “You’re my muse, truly.” 

It’s cheesy, probably. But it’s true. 

He leans back in the chair, exhaustion catching up to him. It’s nearly ten p.m., and he’s gotten used to earlier bedtimes these last two months. He used to stay up later, because she preferred to, so he got used to it. 

A nurse wakes him up an hour later, offering a quick update and reassurance that she’ll wake up soon. 

His anxiety peaks at that, but she’s here, in front of him, breathing.

All in all, she’s not hurt as bad as she could have been. She’ll have to deal with a concussion for a few weeks, but he can take care of her. It used to be what he did best. 

A soft groan escapes her lips when she wakes up, her eyes blinking, trying to adjust to the light. She tries to sit up, but Bellamy’s standing over her, and quickly runs a hand through her hair, “Give yourself a second, babe. You’re alright. Things are okay.” She nods, settling on closing her eyes. 

“You're here.” A statement, but a hint of a question in the words. 

“They called me as soon as they got you settled to the hospital.”

She nods, but then jerks up. “Shit my car-”

“Is fine.” He murmurs. “Lay down, love.”

She glares at him, but it’s playful, a familiarness in it. “There’s no way that car is fine.”

He snorts. “It’s totalled. But insurance will cover most of a new one.” He runs another hand through her hair, basking in any touch he can get. “You were talking about getting a new one anyways.”

She sobers at that. “A year ago.”

It stings, another reminder of the ways in which he has failed. 

“We can worry about that later. Just rest now.”

Another glare. “I don’t want to rest. I’ve been sleeping forever.”

“Two hours.”

An eye roll. “Long enough.”

A nurse comes in then, checking all her vitals, and asking Clarke a couple questions. 

They’re both quiet when the nurse leaves, words hanging in the air between them. 

She sniffles, “I want to come home, Bell.” Her head leans against his hand, her eyes closing again. 

“We’ll take care of that. I can grab your things once we get you home and feeling better.” 

She nods, and sniffles again. “I’m sorry.” She sighs.

He shakes his head, placing a kiss on her forehead as he pulls a chair next to her. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I love you,” she says on a yawn. He squeezes her hand as she drifts off again. 

“I love you endlessly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah THANK YOU if you got to the end of this lil fic. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts if you feel so inclined as to leave a comment<3
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/firrehearrt)


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